


Sickness and Symptom

by Laylah



Category: Baccano!, Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Crossover, Danger, Gangsters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-16
Updated: 2008-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:15:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The warehouse goes up like an angel to fucking heaven, bright against the night sky. They shouldn’t stay to watch for long, because Kimberly’s hands smell like kerosene and Ladd’s wearing about a quart of other people’s blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sickness and Symptom

The warehouse goes up like an angel to fucking heaven, bright against the night sky. They shouldn’t stay to watch for long, because Kimberly’s hands smell like kerosene and Ladd’s wearing about a quart of other people’s blood. They both take a lot of satisfaction in a job well done, though, so they give it a minute or two before they head off—through the alleys and up away from the docks, back toward midtown to give Archer the report.

They’ve made it about three blocks before the explosion — the fire Kimberly set, reaching the smuggled ammunition cached underneath crates of legitimate imports. Kimberly stops for a second, can’t help it, just to feel the rumble come up through the pavement. It’s a good one, heavy and resonant, and he can feel it humming behind his breastbone. He hums a little himself, feeling the little coil of pleasure run down his spine even at this distance. It’s a shame they couldn’t have stayed to watch that happen.

“Hey, hey,” Ladd says, “come on! What are you waiting around for now? Are you letting yourself get distracted again? That’s no good, no good at all.”

“Fuck off, lefty,” Kimberly says agreeably. “I don’t complain when you need to get knee-deep in somebody’s guts before you’re satisfied.”

Ladd doesn’t even hear the important part, of course. “What did you call me?”

Kimberly looks down at Ladd’s sewn-up sleeve. He knows a bad idea when he has one. “Lefty.”

Ladd’s remaining hand gets him around the throat before he can throw any more gasoline on that particular fire, slams him hard into the wall. “You think you can make fun of me?” Ladd says. “You think you’re so tough? You think I can’t still kill you with one hand?”

Stupid guys would be going for weapons right now. Kimberly tries to keep meeting Ladd’s eyes through the spots that blur his vision. He gets one hand on Ladd’s bicep and the other pushing up on his elbow in the direction it doesn’t want to bend. “Worth it?” he rasps. “I’ll mess you up bad on the way down.”

“Tch,” Ladd says, and lets go. Kimberly takes a deep breath. His windpipe feels raw. “Tough guy.”

“Vicious bastard,” Kimberly says, because he knows a compliment when he hears one and he’d bet Ladd enjoyed that job as much as he did. He grabs the blood-wet lapels of Ladd’s jacket and pulls, so the full weight of Ladd’s boxing-champ build pins him to the wall. They kiss less than they bite, teeth scraping, a low growl rising up in Ladd’s throat like a building about to collapse, and Kimberly’s lip gets split but he leaves a red bruise right under Ladd’s jaw, so they’re more or less even.

“Hhaa,” Ladd says, “this is what you want, tough guy?” and it’s cock-first but he puts his whole body behind that push, grinding Kimberly back into the wall.

“You know it is,” Kimberly says, and pushes a hand down between them to pull at his belt.

Archer’s report can wait a little longer.


End file.
